Lumos Construction
by PhoenixTailAndHolly
Summary: Ronald Weasley is working as a contractor. He is wrapping up a job when he gets a call for a new project; a cottage in Devon. The voice on the other end of the line is strangely familiar... This story is my attempt at writing a fic with mostly chapters under 1.000 words.
1. Chapter 1

Ronald Weasley had been a private contractor for about five years. He had abandoned his education, opting instead to go into the Auror academy with Harry. He had not finished his first year, due to personal reasons.

He had done some travelling then, seen a bit of the rest of the world, tasting new cultures and traditions. He had run out of money quite a lot faster than he had anticipated, and in his need for money had accepted a paid trainee position with a muggle contractor. He had taught Ron nearly everything he knew of carpentry, electronics, and construction. Ron had initially seen his job as a way to earn a quick buck, but after a week had grown intrigued by it. There was something therapeutic to sanding wood, an almost mystical quality to mixing concrete. It soothed him to finish a job and to just take a moment to behold the results and think: "I made this."

Ron was finishing up the last few stages of the job he was currently working on. An elderly couple had asked him to extend the back of their home with a patio. Ron had made a couple of sketches and drawings to show what he could do, and made a point to talk to the couple every day to show what he had done, and what he planned to do next.

"Lumos Construction, how may I help you?" he said, answering the phone in his usual way if the caller's ID was unknown. Arriving back in England more than a year after beginning his travels, Ron had wasted little time to set up his new business. He had thought of the name on the train-ride from London to his parents's home.

"Hello," said a strangely familiar female voice, "I would like make some inquiries into a renovation project I am going to start soon. I have been given your number by a friend, Cloe McMurdo."

Ron thought back at the bathroom renovation he had done for McMurdo. Nobody in construction liked doing renovations for bathrooms. It was horribly precise work, and it took ages to complete. The girl in question (she had been about his own age) had been very pretty, and he had made an effort to work as precise as he could. She had been very pleased with the results.

"Yes, I remember," he replied, "Third floor apartment, large bathtub and separate shower. Miss McMurdo was very content with the results I believe."

"She was. She still is. She recommended you when she heard I had bought a small cottage near Buckerell. She told me you do work in all of Great Britain."

_Buckerell? That's really close to my parents's house._

"Yes," he replied, "I do. I am also one of the cheapest contractors in the country."

This was one of his favourite angles. Being a wizard did have its benefits. Where regular contractors spent hours travelling, or needed co-workers to move heavy objects, Ron could use magic to aid him. He could charm heavy objects to make them lighter, or levitate them altogether if there wasn't anybody around. He could work throughout the country, apparating to his work without losing valuable time commuting.

"I heard," the voice replied, "I would not have called if Cloe had not assured me that you deliver top grade quality."

"Well," he said, a little annoyed by her strangely familiar yet unknown voice, "I believe in delivering quality services and advertising by word-of-mouth."

"It is working," she said, "Can we meet someday soon to discuss the project?"

"Sure," he said, hoping that his voice did not betray the momentary surge of elation, "I think it would be best if we meet at the project site. I can make a quick assessment of what I think needs to be done, and give you an indication of the cost."

They arranged a meeting in a few days. That would give him a few days off, which suited him well. He was overdue for a visit to his parents. He loved going over to Ottery St. Catchpole and visiting the Burrow. His mother would cook him a large meal, and his father would sit with him after dinner, to discuss muggle appliances.

His father was proud of him, which clearly showed in his face every time Ron mentioned his work. His choice for a muggle profession made for one of his father's favourite topics. His eyes shone with longing when Ron mentioned a project, and he would insist on getting to know everything about it.

He did not visit his parents that often though, or at least not as often as he would like. Ginny and Harry regularly visited on Mondays and Fridays, which meant those days were off-limits for obvious reasons. 'She' came over every first Sunday of the month, which meant he had missed out on every single family get-together since returning to England over four years ago.

His mother lamented this fact every time he was back home. She would try to casually mention what they had done that Sunday, after which she would harp at him to join them next time. He had left early on numerous occasions because of it, which saddened him; his mother was obviously feeling very sad over the fact that he was never there. So was Ron, but he could not confront 'her'. He had meant to go several times, but always would find some excuse at the last minute. _Some Gryffindor I am..._


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione hung up the phone and ticked the box in her itinerary beside "Call contractor". One more item in the long list of things to take care of before she could move into her cottage was done. She refocused her attention to the memo in front of her. The deadline for the submission of proposals for the next meeting of the Wizenmagot was extended two weeks due to the illness of one of the members. _Good_, she thought, _If I put in a couple of evenings, I'll be able to submit mine ahead of plan._

She spent a couple of minutes scribbling down notes and ideas for her proposal. It would be a small victory for Elf welfare if the Wizenmagot voted for her proposal. She knew that chance would be small, but was none the less prepared to make her statement and defend her proposal. If she was able to convince one of the members each time, it would only take ten meetings to gain a majority vote.

Her thoughts strayed to the phone call she had just made. Something about the voice of the contractor sounded familiar. Her phone, an antique piece that looked like it had been in the ministry since before the nineteenth century, always garbled up the sound. She had a hard time recognising Harry's voice. _It must have just been the accent_.

She thought about the cottage she had bought three weeks ago. In just two weeks, she would be the proud owner of it. 'It' being a cottage on the outskirts of a tiny little hamlet in Devon. 'It' was also a neglected, rotting dump. Harry had called her mad for falling in love with it. Ginny had tried to talk her out of it. Her parents had made some convincing arguments why she should not buy it when she had asked for their advice.

She had bought it anyways. The negotiations for the price had been brutal. Hermione was not going to pay more than 80.000 pounds for the building, simply stating that the building would need a lot of extensive renovations and that the original price it was on the market for would have been difficult even in a better economic climate. The sellers had tried to make her go up, but she had put her foot down, and in the end they had agreed upon her price.

It was going to be wonderful when it was finished. The place was large enough for a small family to live in, which meant that Hermione would have enough room to store her books. When she had entered one of the smaller bedrooms, she had pictured her own private library. It would barely fit a couple of shelves on each wall, but it would be hers, and it would be lovely!

She hoped the contractor was a good as Cloe had said he was. When she had told her friend about the cottage, the first thing out of her mouth was "Lumos Construction". Cloe had told her everything about her own renovation. After a quick inspection of Cloe's bathroom, Hermione could do naught but admit that it did look splendid.

"Wait till you meet him," Cloe had said, "He has the most beautiful blue eyes I ever saw. I was hoping he would take his time, but he was done after two weeks." Cloe had leaned in over their table at the café they were visiting, adding in whispers, "I would not have minded sharing the bathtub with him. You know what they say about men with big hands, right?"

Cloe could be so crude sometimes, Hermione reflected. It had been but a whisper, but Hermione had gone beet-red, and quickly changed the subject to a lighter matter. A day later, Cloe had send her a message by owl with the phone number of her contactor.

Hermione was going to have to get the keys to the cottage from the real estate agency soon, so she could show him what she wanted, and so that he could make an assessment of what it would cost. She had been saving up a lot of money for a while now, so she was sure she was going to be able to afford it.

Still, that nagging voice in the back of her head told her she should have recognised the voice on the other end of the line. What was it that made it sound so familiar? Who did it remind her of?


	3. Chapter 3

He had spent the night on his old bed. His parents had not changed anything in his room since he had left. The cannons posters had fade to a yellowish-orange that made you queasy when you looked at it for too long. He had been up talking with his parents for most of the evening. His mother had once again brought up his absence at the Weasley get-together last month, and insisted he'd join the upcoming one this Sunday. He had told her 'Maybe' which did not placate her, but it was the best he was willing to offer. She left around eleven, after which he spent a few hours talking to his father.

His dad was a good listener, and though Ron did not enjoy talking about his personal issues, his dad was one of the few people he sparingly confided to. His financial reserves were low. A lot of people were holding on to their money, postponing renovations or remodelling until the economy would lift up again. He really needed the job in Buckerell.

When Ron mentioned his mum a couple of minutes later, his father had told him of he had found her in the chicken coop during the previous Weasley get-together. She'd gone to fetch some eggs, and had not returned. After a couple of minutes, his father had gone out to investigate, and had found her crying.

"She has not done that since Fred died," his dad had said, "She really misses you."

The words had come like a blow. He had missed his family too, but he just wasn't ready to meet 'her' again. The end of their relationship had been anything but pretty. There had been lots of angry rowing, many insults flung to and fro, and at the peak, when the blood had pounded against his eardrums and he thought he had never been that angry, an exchange of slaps. She had struck first, a violent and lightning-fast whip of her hand across his cheek. It had inflamed him. He was infuriated. Not by the act itself. It was just a harmless swat against his face. He would have been more angry if she had used magic. No, the fury had not built until he had looked into her eyes and saw not a shred of remorse, not even the faintest hint of shame or regret.

He had fought to control his temper then. Twice was he able to withhold the urge of striking back, but the look of triumph that had flitted across her face for just a moment when she saw that he was completely lost for words had distracted him so utterly that he did not even recall his hand flying back through the air and slapping her directly in the cheek. He remembered the sound though, the wet slap that had indicated the exact moment that their relationship had gone from 'salvageable' to 'train wrecked'.

He woke up every day thinking back to that moment, that slapping sound, that feeling of resolute and utter pain that had nothing to do with physical injury but was solely caused by emotional grief. He had shown himself the door in silence, leaving their shared flat as she screamed at him in a shrill voice he did not even recognise as hers.

He had quit the auror academy soon afterwards, and had left the country within a month. Harry had sided with Hermione, which he did not blame him for. If Ginny had told him Harry had slapped her, he would be the first to kick Harry in the nuts. Harry had (of course) been more civilized, opting to discuss the matter. They had talked in a restaurant, which had set his teeth on edge; it was obvious Harry had chosen such a public place to make sure things would not get violent again. The discussion had gone exactly as Ron had anticipated. Harry telling him off for hitting Hermione, Ron saying she had struck him first.

"That doesn't really matter, mate," Harry had said, "You just don't hit women."

Harry was right, of course. Ron had not gone through a single day since then without feeling ashamed for what he had done. He had hit her across the cheek. It was intolerable. She was the love of his life, the only woman that had ever mattered to him, and his one second of rage had ended that completely.

He got up and showered. Wolfing down his breakfast, he gave his parents a quick peck on the cheek and went out to apparate to the cottage. It was close by; he could have walked the distance. It would take less than an hour by his judgement. He apparated instead, picturing a secluded valley close by as he did. It was only a couple of minutes away from the cottage.

He arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. He liked to take a quick peek in to make an initial assessment. Without the client to interrupt, he could check some of the more technical points about the structural integrity of the house.

The cottage was in bad shape. The roof had sagged down noticeably at more than one point. The wood of the windows and doorposts had been rotting for at least half a decade and had not been addressed. From what he could see inside, the electrical wiring was outdated two centuries ago, and would have to be replaced completely. This was going to be a big project, much bigger than what the client thought at least. He could not assess the structural integrity on the inside of the house, but a large vertical crack running down the side of the building did not bode well.

He had cupped his hands to the window to peer inside without the glare of the rising sun when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Ah," she said, and the oddly familiar voice was suddenly connected to a name and a face, "I see you are here already. What do you think?"

He turned slowly. He had dreaded the moment he would see her again, and it took all of his willpower to do so. She too recognised him immediately.

"I think you bought a wreck."

"You?" she said, colour flooding to her cheeks as she took an involuntary step back. "You?"

Ron leaned back carefully to sit down against the cottage's outside wall. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. What was he going to say to her?

"You!" she said, pointing at him half as a malediction, and half in utter surprise. "You were Cloe's contractor?"

"Yeah," he said, catching himself gazing down to avoid looking at her, "I was. Why?"

"Is this your idea of a sick joke? What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm a contractor," he said, feeling rather stung at the idea that she would think that he would want to play sick jokes, "And from what you told me on the telephone, a pretty damn good one. _You_ called _me_, remember?"

"Oh," she said, "I remember! Had she mentioned your name, I would have called someone else."

He grinned in spite of himself. Less than a minute had passed and already, they were rowing. He was still looking down. The grin disappeared.

"You would have had to pay a hefty price for the renovations you're planning," he said, pointing at the cottage behind him. "This place is about to cave in."

Her anger seemed to abate a little. A quick glance up showed that her brow was creased, a sure sign that she was processing information she did not want to hear.

"What do you mean?" she said. It was the first thing she had asked him this conversation that did not sound angry or resentful. "Is it that bad?"

"Yeah, it is," he said, finding the courage at last to look up at her. "Do you see that crack running down the length of the house? If you put your hands against it, you can feel there is a difference in depth between the two sides. That means there is no connection between the two sides anymore. I'm going to have to take out the broken stones and cement new ones in their stead."

Hermione frowned.

"I'm also going to have to fix the roof. There's two or three places _at least_ that require immediate attention. Most of the window frames and doors are rotten to a point where you are going to have to replace them. The wiring in the house is ancient. Would you like me to continue?"

"Can't I just use a couple of spells to fix these things?"

"You know a spell that will fix these window frames?" he asked, knowing there wasn't one. This was a bit of knowledge Ron knew Hermione would not know about, since she was muggleborn. While he was growing up at the Burrow, he had asked many of these questions. Why can't we magically enlarge the entire house? Why isn't there a way to make the rain stop? These were valid questions, but not easily answered.

"I'm sure I could.."

"Yes," he said, knowing beforehand what she was going to suggest, "You could slap together a couple of reparation spells, maybe add a charm to repel water, but it would not be permanent."

"Magic is not a catch-all, Hermione, you know that. Do you remember that old sofa in the common room? The one that kept falling apart if more than three people were sitting on it? You can use magic to fix it, but it won't hold. Magic can be used to protect what is, not fix what isn't."

"You mean I'm going to have to do everything manually?"


	4. Chapter 4

She sighed. _Damn,_ she thought, _this is going to be more expensive than I had hoped._

He was still leaning back against the wall of the house, now craning his neck to peer into the cottage through the windows. He looked troubled. Ron had changed a little since their terrible falling-out. He hair was longer, though not as ridiculous as in their fourth year. His arms were notably stronger and more developed, though they weren't outwardly showy. His muscles weren't big, but powerful none-the-less. She noticed that the scars on his arms had faded away almost completely.

"Do you have the key?" he asked, "I'd like to take a look inside."

She reached into her pocket and extracted the key she had just picked up from the realtor. Closing the distance to the entrance, she found herself fumbling the key into the lock. He had not been this close to her in years! She remembered all too well the tingling sensation of her cheek when he had slapped her. She felt it often when she thought about him, and subconsciously rubbed her cheek with her hand every time. Suppressing the urge, she managed to unlock the door.

"Hang on," he said, as she was about to enter, "Can I go first?"

She stepped away from the door. "Be my guest."

He entered the house gingerly, almost hesitantly. His eyes trained on the floor, he seemed to be testing it by putting his weight here and there. Some of the floorboards moved and creaked. She was planning to put a silencing charm on them. He looked troubled.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, moving his weight again, "These floorboards are moving under my weight."

"I noticed that too when I made my first visit. I'm thinking of some sort of sticking charm to pin them down, and a silencing charm for the sound."

Ron didn't reply, but moved a little to the right. There, he spread his legs a little and forced his weight down on the floor. This time, the floorboards didn't creak. The groaned.

"I am now standing on one of the support beams for the floor. Notice how the floorboards are mostly connected to it."

"Yeah, so?"

"If I do this," he said, shifting his weight up, then forcing it down again. Another loud groan. "The entire floor goes up and down. That means there is a very real chance that this supporting beam is rotten down."

"Yeah?" Hermione said. She knew little about buildings and construction work.

"That means the whole floor has to be removed, so I can check if anything else is rotten down there as well. If you let a regular muggle contractor do this, it would cost you at least a five hundred quid. Assuming just two or three of these beams are rotten, and the damage to the foundation is limited, that would amount to at least ten thousand quid, including materials and manpower."

He glanced around. "Most of the walls have vertical cracks, which is not that difficult to fix, but will take some time. The electricity is archaic." He fiddled with a light switch. It came off from the wall. He stared at it in surprise as he turned it over in his hands. "I will have to rewire the entire place. You'll probably want to–"

"I haven't given you the order yet to do this," she said, "I can still give the job to another contractor."

He eyed her for a moment. "And spend twice as much money on it? I am the cheapest contractor by far! But if you insist on tossing your money over to somebody you don't even know, be my ruddy guest." He set the light switch down on a shelve, then made his way over to the door. He had barely made it out of the threshold when she stopped him.

"What do you think it will cost if you do it?"

"Assuming half the supporting beams of the floor are rotten, the foundation is sagging as I suspect it is, the electricity is completely redone, and the roof is repaired by completely replacing it with a new one? At least twenty thousand quid."

She looked at him in silent anger.

"What? A regular contractor would ask at least treble that price! This is a dump, Hermione, a rotten, dingy dump."

She forced away the emotions on her face. She had known this cottage wasn't in the best of states. She had hoped however that a bit of magic would minimize the damage. The money wasn't a problem. It was most of what she had saved up for, and she could pay him if he was to do the job, but if muggle contractors would ask treble that price, she would never be able to afford them. If so, Ron was her only option. _Damn._

"I'm sorry," he said, "I should not have said that. I understand why you bought this cottage, Hermione. I remember your dreams of a small cottage in the country, just large enough for a small family. I noticed the rose climbing the side of the house. It will be marvellous in the summer."

For a moment, she felt a pang of sadness. She had discussed her plans for the future with Ron, and apparently, he had remembered it almost word-for-word. It wasn't the first time since their break up that she felt a great sadness at their failed relationship.

"It's fine," she said a little softly, "You are right. By all accounts, this is a dump. Can you make me an offer on paper? I want you to specify it so that I can see what each stage of the renovation would cost me. Send it to my office in the ministry."

"Sure."


	5. Chapter 5

It was Sunday. He had been both dreading and anticipating this day. It would mark the first Weasley get-together in five years he would attend. He had kept his intention to appear to himself. If he wanted to back out from it, he could still do it. He glanced at the folder that lay on the table across from him. Hermione had asked for a specified offer, and he had gone into great detail, in so far as that was possible. He had even gone through the effort of making another offer, based on a worst-case scenario. He had learned in four years that there was almost always a lot of hidden work in renovating. If the house was in a worse shape than he expected (which would hardly be possible in his opinion), she would have to spend at least twenty-five thousand quid.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was almost twelve. Most of the Weasleys would be at the Burrow by now. Harry would probably be late, as he usually was when Ron still attended. Hermione would probably be first. She would want to offer her help in the preparations.

Setting aside his tea and checking the house one last time, he took hold of the folder containing his offer for Hermione and apparated out to an abandoned dirt road which led to the Burrow. The road was sparingly used by hikers and nature-lovers, all of whom suddenly remembered more important things to do as they neared his parental home.

He leisurely strolled along the dirt road, taking overly long to enjoy the view over the pastures and fields he had tramped as a kid. He knew this area like the back of his hand. He was tempted for a moment to give into the urge to walk down into the pasture. It reminded him of his daily forays in the summer after his fourth year at Hogwarts. The house had been stiflingly hot those days, and his frustration at his feelings for Hermione had led him far and wide across the country surrounding his home.

A soft pop indicated the arrival of another wizard. He saw Percy arrive about twenty yards away from him, quickly joined by his girlfriend Audrey. Both completely oblivious to anything but each other, they joined hands and quickly made their way over to the Burrow, which lay just a hundred yards further along the road. When they had made their way over, Ron steeled his nerves and bit the bullet. He forced his legs to take him along.

When he neared the Burrow, he could hear voices. George was loudly making a joke at Percy's cost, who quickly retorted with a witty reply. _Little has changed, apparently. _Ron could hear children laughing and playing, and his mother fretting over Audrey's noticeable baby bump.

He rounded the last corner and paused at the mailbox. The scene in front of him was one of utter chaos: four little kids were running around the garden, chasing each other or playing with toys. Victoire had just pushed her little brother down to the ground, and Fleur was telling her off for it. The men and women had instinctively drawn towards their own groups. Bill, George, Percy, and his father were seated at a large table that none of them would probably leave before dinner was finished. His mum was talking with Audrey, Hermione, and Fleur, though the latter was only half-heartedly listening, frowning disappointedly at her eldest daughter.

Standing there, leaning against the Weasley mailbox (that had never actually received any mail because the mail man didn't know their address) he was struck by an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. Had it really been five years since he had attended? Had time flown by that fast? He was still apprehensive about joining them, but his mother had glanced in his direction before he could decide on staying or leaving.

"Ronald!" she said, her voice saturated by both delight and joy, "You've come!"

Though none of the kids even noticed him, all of the adults did. Percy craned his head back so far the resemblance to an owl almost made Ron burst out laughing.

"Yes, mum," he said, again urging his legs on to get him into motion again. His mother, seemingly unaware of her surroundings, ran towards him and hugged him, which made him feel all the more embarrassed.

"Well, Perce," George said, "It looks like you've got a reprieve. We just found a new target for our jokes today."

After a minute, Ron managed to disengage from his mother's hug and ambled over to the cluster of men seated at the table. His father said nothing, but when he clapped his shoulder lightly in greeting, his hand lingered there a little longer than usual, and he gave him a meaningful look. Bill said nothing; simply handing him a bottle of Butterbeer.

The women resumed their talk of work and children, though they often glanced in his direction. The volume of their conversation dimmed somewhat to a point where he could no longer hear what they were saying.

Ron's immediate attention was drawn to Hermione. While George had already fired off the first of what would presumably be a long list of jokes at the expense of Ron, he only half-heartedly took part in the discussion. His eyes were involuntarily stealing glances in her direction, like they had done for most of his fourth, fifth, and sixth year at Hogwarts. Hermione had her back turned to him, and though he could not see her face, he noticed that she was hardly involved in the discussion of the ladies, nor was she in any way aware of how she was rolling the bottle of butterbeer in her hands.

A small boy came running from the kitchen into the garden. He had a sly grin on his face. Victoire immediately blew him a raspberry. When he saw Ron, he did a bit of a double take.

"Uncle Ron!" he said, charging full-tilt at him. Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny entered the garden. They seemed surprised, and saw Ginny whisper something to Harry while James climbed on top of Ron's back.

The afternoon went on slowly. Ron was, as George had announced, on the receiving end of most jokes all afternoon. He laughed along, even though some of the jokes were a bit crude. It wasn't until the discussion turned to England's chances at Wimbledon that something significant happened. Percy was lamenting the poor form of most British tennis players when George interjected that Tim Henman's forehand was strong. Harry instantly replied that he 'knew another Briton with a strong forehand'.

The reference wasn't that hard to make. Bill nearly choked on his butterbeer while his father quickly tried to change the subject to something else. George looked at Harry angrily; Ron had crashed temporarily at his place immediately after the dramatic conclusion of his relationship, and they had spoken extensively about it. He was already opening his mouth to make what was sure to be a dark comment when James appeared under his father's arm asking "Who?"

The boy was barely four years old, and had no notion of what tennis was, what a forehand was, or even what they were talking about. He was in his "Why?"-phase. You could not finish a sentence without him asking about it. He would follow up any answer with another why. George swallowed his reply, which probably wasn't suitable for kids anyways, and silence descended.

"Yeah, Harry," Ron said, "Who?"

Harry and him had been on an uneasy truce for five years now. Ron went to birthdays and parties and the occasional diner at his house. Harry had even asked him to fix his gutters after a storm had damaged them. Outwardly, they were peaceful with each other, even though the bond they once shared was heavily frayed. Hermione had gone to Harry after their final fight. She had told him of the slap across her cheek, and Harry had been outraged. He had correctly guessed that Ron would go to George, and after apperating directly into his living room, a big argument had occurred. Ron knew Harry had never forgiven him for hitting Hermione. Ginny had pacified him over the years, and only her continued efforts to get the two of them back together had managed to restore some of the old connection they shared.

He felt a little bad for putting Harry on the spot like that, with his son looking innocently up at him. Harry might feel angry for Ron's slap (Ron felt the same way), but it was not his place to bring it up again. He watched as Harry swallowed anything snide or angry and replied coolly with "Andy Murray".

The moment was not lost on the women, who were only a couple of yards away. An uneasy silence had fallen over the garden, in which everyone seemed to feel uncomfortable. Ron glanced over at Hermione again. She had been facing away from him the entire time he was there. Her movements were rigid though, and she had grown more and more silent. She was rubbing her cheek.

A little while later, he saw her excuse herself and walk into the house. Ron had been hoping to talk to her in private about the cottage. He waited a little while, then also excused himself, taking the folder with him and going into the house. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for Hermione who had probably gone up to use the loo. He heard her coming down the stairs and after crossing the sitting room she entered the kitchen.

"Ron," she said stiffly, "I had not expected you here today."

"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes still focussed on the folder which lay on the kitchen table, "I guess I should have sent you an owl, or maybe I should not have come at all. I can still leave if you want me to."

"It's your family," she said, "Of the both of us, you have more right to be here than me."

He looked up at her. "They are your family too, Hermione. I've always said that."

She didn't reply. Hermione had never considered herself a full member of the Weasley family, even when they had been living together. Ron had told her a thousand times that she was as close to a daughter to his mum and dad as she could be, but for some reason, he could never convince her of it. It was one of the many things they had rowed about, because it irritated Ron greatly that his girlfriend seemingly didn't want to be part of his family. He knew how foolish it was, and that Hermione wanted nothing more than to be part of it, but such was the curse of hind-sight.

"I've made two offers," he said, tapping the folder in front of him. "The first is a conservative estimate, in which I don't have to redo the entire foundation and in which the roof is moderately salvageable."

"The other is an estimate of a worst-case scenario. It's just for reference what it would cost if everything turns out badly."

"What sort of costs am I looking at?" she asked, as she crossed the room and picked up the folder. Ron noticed how she took the long way round, which landed her on the other side of the table instead of next to him. She opened the folder and peered in.

"Good god," she said, quickly scanning the two offers.

"Have you been in contact with other contractors?"

"Yes," she said, "Two of them from around the neighbourhood. One of them kept calling me 'Missy' and insisted I go ahead up the stairs, the other said it would be cheaper to tear the entire cottage down and rebuild it from scratch. Their most conservative estimate was seventy k."

"Oof."

"Yes," she said, with a bit of a smile on her face, "A bit more than I had hoped for."

"I can imagine," he said, "But you don't have to do everything immediately. The house won't suddenly come apart if you leave the foundation alone for a year longer. You can patch the roof for a couple of years with some minor spells."

"No," she said, "I want to do it right. Otherwise, I'll spend the next five years living in a dump. I'll look over your offers tonight. I'll call you to – "

"Is he bothering you?"

Both of them turned to the door, where Harry stood wearing a massive scowl on his face. His hand was hovering near his right pants pocket, which was always ominous. Ron felt a wave of anger. _I'm just talking to her, damnit! Who does he blood well think he is to have the nerve say these things!_

Hermione flipped the folder shut and coolly replied "no". Ron forced his anger down, and remained seated, even though he felt like standing up and making a more than angry retort. Harry stared at Hermione for a moment, then put his hands on his hips.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked Hermione, "In private?"

"Sure," Hermione said, and she followed him out. They walked to the broom shed, Harry gesticulating wildly with his hands, and Hermione walking beside him, her head bent down a little, and one step behind him. At one point, Harry pointed back into the house angrily, his voice not carrying over but clearly raised. Hermione put her hand on his arm, and told him something in what he knew would be her firm _I-will-not-be-reasoned-with _voice.


	6. Chapter 6

"He beat you, Hermione," Harry said, his voice now dropping in volume again, "He beat you in the face!"

"Technically, he slapped me," she said back, carefully keeping her voice casual and light, but not in a way that would make Harry think she thought lightly of it. Harry had never forgiven Ron for hitting her, and though he meant well, he could get a little ahead of himself sometimes. When she had told him what had happened, through many tears and sobs, Harry had gone ballistic. He had noticed their strained relationship before anyone else had. He had advised both Hermione and Ron in private moments. When she turned to him after that final fight, she had only needed him to be there and listen. Instead, Harry had exploded into a fit of anger, and had sought to bring poetic justice to Ron. Since then, he had upgraded Ron's slap in her face to a punch, and had conveniently forgotten that she had slapped him first.

"A slap, a beat, that doesn't matter; he hit you!"

"Yes, Harry," she said, "He hit me. I know. I was there. Thank you for reminding me."

Harry looked at her in obvious discomfort, and Hermione felt that his discomfort was justified. Harry was a sweetheart in wanting to defend her, and his disappointment with Ron clearly showed, but it wasn't his fight to pick. Her hand was rubbing her cheek again. She dropped it.

"You know I bought a cottage near here, right?"

"Yes, so?"

"Well, it turns out that there is a considerable amount of renovation-work to be done. More than I had anticipated. A friend of mine recommended a contractor. It turned out to be Ron."

"There are other contractors in England, Hermione. You don't have to pick the one that _slapped_ you. Besides, a bit of spell work should keep the costs down."

"Ron explained that to me too," she said, "He was as enthusiastic about doing this job for me as you are. He offered me some advice though, and after following it up, it turned out he was right in all accounts. Magic can't fix what's wrong with this house."

"But why does it have to be Ron? If magic doesn't help, won't a muggle contractor be better?"

"Ron only charges a fraction of what regular contractors charge. Besides, I know Ron. I can trust him."

"Trust him?" Harry said, his voice getting louder again, "If anything, Ron is the one person you can't trust!"

Harry's comment shook her. _Yes, _she thought_, I had lost my trust in Ron. It was what finally drove us apart. I could no longer trust Ron in the implicit way that I once did. But after five years, my anger at him has abated. Five lonely years have gone by, and from what I've heard from his parents, they were lonely years for Ron to._ "I trust Ron enough as a friend for him to fix my house. I'm not inviting him in for milk and cookies, nor am I starting a relationship again. All I want is for him to give me good advice and to fix my house. I will be paying him for it."

The afternoon turned into evening. Dinner was the regular, joyous event that it always was, regardless of the ill-concealed animosity that sometimes threatened to spoil the mood. Mr and Mrs Weasley did their best to steer the conversation away during those moments, and George could always be counted on to break the ice by placing a well-observed comment. That was one of the things she was in deep awe of with George. When there was a dissonant tone, like a crack in the ice, George would not skate around it like everyone else, but he would plough right through it like an ice-breaker. He would call out everyone on their bull-shit, and do it in such a lovely, funny way that nobody would be angry about it.

She wondered how much George missed Fred on these occasions. She wondered if his thoughts still dwelled endlessly on what Fred would be like if he was still alive today. Ron had spoken little of Fred since his death; it was a ragged, open wound in his heart, and if she ever mentioned him, it would guarantee a fight within ten minutes. She wondered how much Ron blamed himself for Fred's death. He had mentioned that once, but had since adamantly denied it.

Ron was looking at her again. She could tell by the tingling sensation she felt on her arms and legs. She knew he was sorry for slapping her, even though he had never actually apologised for it. No had she, for that matter.

She left earlier than usual, partly because she needed to sort out her thoughts, and partly because she wanted to look through the folder Ron had left her. She made her goodbyes, kissing Harry on his cheek, hugging Ginny and Fleur, and giving a general wave of goodbye to everyone else. She thanked Mr and Mrs Weasley for the dinner, and for having her over. Naturally, they replied by stating that she was always welcome, and needn't thank them.

On her way to the fireplace, she walked past Ron. A kiss on the cheek was something she was not feeling up to, nor a hug. She didn't want to leave without some sort of goodbye though, so she ended up with putting her hand on his shoulder and telling him she'd ring him soon. He pulled his attention away from the game of chess he was playing and replied with a simple "Okay, bye".

Once in her own apartment, Hermione flipped open the folder. She had already decided to let Ron do the job. She wanted to see what he would want to fix, and what the costs were. The offers were amazingly specific, a complete overview of projected costs and a planning of what would have to be done when. There was an accompanying note with questions and suggestions about the renovation. Ron's untidy scrawl had not gotten more legible over the years. Looking at the note reminded her of revising his essays for him in school.


	7. Chapter 7

Ron got Hermione's call within a day of the Weasley get-together. She told him she wanted him to do the job, and they made some appointments for the next few weeks to discuss what she wanted him to do, and in what order. Ron had called a couple of suppliers to see if he could get a good price for the materials he needed. Hermione had told him how much money she had reserved for the renovation, and a quick calculation made him realize that he was going to have to keep the costs as low as possible. He hoped that her cottage would not have many surprises for her.

His job at the elderly muggle couple was now finished; they had been very happy with the result, and Ron was sure they would enjoy the patio very much. He had added a couple of water repellent charms to the roof, did a climate-control enchantment that was going to keep the patio up to a nice temperature, and also placed a self-made spell to the windows to let in extra light. He was sure it was going to be their favourite area in the house soon, with all the light and warmth it was going to have.

They had thanked him profusely, and had offered to give him a slight bonus. Ron had declined, insisting that the best bonus they could give him was to recommend him to friends and neighbours.

"We sure will, lad," the elderly man had said, "You can count on that!"

It was only a couple of days before Hermione was going to get the keys to the cottage. The financial aspect had already been taken care of, so there was nothing left that could possibly go wrong. In just a few days, Hermione was going to be the owner of her own cottage. He could tell that she was exited. He had needed to talk to her occasionally when he was faced with a decision in terms of materials, and her voice had sounded like it once did, when they were back at Hogwarts. It reminded him of her passionate recounting of their first transfiguration classes during their fifth year.

Ron had visited the cottage twice since the Weasley get-together. On both instances, he had picked up the key on his own, and visited the cottage by himself. He had pried off a couple of the floorboards to check the supporting beams and the foundation. From what he could see, it looked to be in desperate need of attention, but it wasn't alarming. Most of the supporting beams turned out to be rotten, so he had taken measurements and had already ordered new ones. The entire floor would have to be ripped out, which was a pity, because it would cost him a couple of days to replace it, and Hermione's budget was tight. The roof turned out to be a bit of a pleasant surprise, though. The damage was relatively minor, and isolated at four easily repaired areas.

Outside the cottage was a small shed. It had once held bicycles, a couple of spare roof tiles, and some gardening equipment. Ron had asked Hermione if he could use it to store his equipment. He would need quite a few of them for this job, and some of them were very expensive. The current owners had already moved out, and had already given him the key to the shed. Ron locked it magically; better safe than sorry.

It was July fifth; the day Hermione would finally get the keys to the cottage. The formal passing of ownership would occur somewhere at the end of the morning. Hermione had taken a vacation for two weeks; she wanted to help with the renovations to keep the costs down. Ron had been sceptical. He wondered if the two of them would not start rowing again, but he needed the money, and both of them were five years older since their relationship exploded. Surely, they would know how to keep civil amongst each other?

He apparated to the cottage at noon. When he arrived, he saw Hermione emerging from the cottage with a wide grin on her face. She was carrying a couple of wooden floorboards, which she dumped unceremoniously onto a pile of rubble.

"There are easier ways to remove those floorboards, you know." He reached into his pants pocket to extract his wand, but Hermione shook her head quickly. Just then, somebody else emerged from the cottage; Cloe. Hermione's muggle friend was also carrying floorboards and when she saw him she greeted him with a wave which caused her to drop the floorboards. Cloe had to have the worst hand-eye coordination Ron had ever witnessed. He walked over to her and helped her pick up the floorboards. Ron dumped them on the pile of rubble too.

"So, Ronald," Cloe said, "I heard you and Hermione went to school together."

"Yes, we did."

"And I heard you two also dated," Cloe said, nudging Hermione, "Hermione never mentioned that."

"It was a long time in the past," Hermione said, "We were together for little under a year."

"Still, I wonder why she never mentioned you before," Cloe continued, much to Hermione's embarrassment, "Such a strong and handsome boyfriend…"

Both of them flushed red. Cloe had been covertly hitting on him when he was working for her, but it was never this obvious. Apparently, not being the client made he a lot more bold. He wasn't sure why Hermione was glowing. Perhaps she was just not used to these sorts of conversations, or thought of them as inappropriate.

From the cottage emerged a new person. He was carrying what looked like a bag containing tiles.

"What are you two girls – " Mr Granger began, until he saw Ron. He was quiet for a moment. "Hermione, can I have a word with you? In private?"


	8. Chapter 8

They walked to the back of the shed. Hermione had dreaded telling her father about Ron. She knew her father still held as much anger towards Ron as Harry did. Her father was a composed man, and not prone to violent outbursts. That was a character-trait she had inherited from her mother.

"Hermione, dear, what is _Weasley_ doing here?"

Her father had taken to calling Ron "Weasley" since they had started seeing each other. What had once been a nickname that was spoken in joy had soon turned into a mocking moniker. Her father had made it very clear that he never wanted to see Ron again, even though she had never told him what had happened between the two of them. She had confided that only to her mother, whom had adamantly denied ever mentioning it to her father.

"Ron is a contractor," she said, "He will be doing the things I can't do."

"And it had to be him?" her father said, looking down at her grimly. "There was nobody else?"

"Yes," she replied, "I chose Ron after consulting other contractors. Ron is the only one that can do this job in the way I want."

Her father mulled it over in his head. He chewed his lip for a moment. "You know this is going to be difficult, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"You two are going to be working together intensively for the next two weeks. Ron is going to be there every day, and you won't be able to take a break from him. I know things ended badly for you two, and I know he hurt you very much. Your mom still won't tell me what happened, but I gather it would be something dramatic." He looked at her for a moment, perhaps hoping she would tell him what had happened. When she didn't, he continued. "Couples doing this together consider it a test for their relationship. Doing this now, as is, will be a recipe for disaster."

"Don't worry, dad," she said, "I can handle myself. I'm not the girl I was a couple of years ago."

"I know."

"Can you please be civil to Ron today?"

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "If you want me to, I can be civil to Weasley."

Cloe had been a dear when she had told her she had taken a day off from work to help Hermione. She had brought lunch in a large picnic basket, and had also bought a couple of heavy construction gloves. It was all very sweet of her, but it also meant that things were going a lot slower than she had hoped. Unable to do magic, they were forced to do things the muggle way.

"Cloe," Ron asked after a few hours, "Could you be a dear and run to the store and get me a bottle of Turpentine? I will need to paint some of this wood soon, but I don't want to stop taking these floorboards out just yet."

For some reason, the way Ron had asked her set Hermione's teeth on edge. It was just a little bit too friendly. He had certainly never felt the need to call her "dear" when he needed something from the shop.

"Of course, Ronald," Cloe replied, "Anything else I can get you?"

"No, that will do."

Cloe got into her car and sped off. When she did, Ron got up from the floor.

"Finally," he said reaching into his pocket and taking out his wand, "Let's get some real work done."

With a flick, he sent the nails in one of the floorboard up and into a plastic bag. Ron repeated this action a couple of dozen times in under a minute, then lifted the floorboards up in a single sweep of his wand, and sent them clattering in a neat pile on top of the rest of the rubble. He also managed to sever the rotten supporting beams from the rest of the construction and charmed them to be lighter so he could comfortably carry them out of the cottage's small front door with her father. Meanwhile, Hermione had gone into the largest of the bedrooms, where her mother was busy removing the wallpaper. After an hour, she had managed to remove most of the paper from an entire wall. Hermione made a lazy flick of her wrist, which caused the wallpaper to curl up and separate from the walls on their own.

"Well, I'm glad my efforts in the past couple of hours weren't completely useless," her mother said wryly, "Imagine having to do that by hand."

Hermione afforded her mother with a grin. She made to leave (she wanted to do the other rooms before Cloe returned), but her mother grabbed her hand.

"So," she said, "Ronald huh?"

"Yes, mother," she said wearily. She was not feeling in the mood for another reprimand, "To be blunt: I can't afford anyone else."

"I'm just surprised that he agreed."

Where Harry and her father had both instantly held a grudge against Ron when their relationship ended, her mother had reacted differently. She had been patient, had listened to what Hermione told her had happened, and had asked a couple of uncomfortable pointed questions. It was her opinion that mattered most to Hermione, and her opinion that had troubled her most these past five years. Her mother had sided with Ron.

She had made her opinion about physical violence crystal clear (never acceptable), and agreed that their relationship was unsalvageable. Her first reaction however was not one of outrage at Ron, nor one of sympathy with Hermione. "From what you told me, Hermione," she had said, "You started the violence. It was you who hit him first. I must admit, I am more than a little disappointed in you."


	9. Chapter 9

Cloe returned about half an hour after she had left, a look of utter disbelief etched upon her face. The floor was now completely removed, including the rotten support beams. Hermione's father was helping him carry the last of the support beams out of the house when she returned. They made a bit of a show carrying it, because the beam had been charmed to be almost feather-light, though in reality, it weighed probably twenty stone. Not something you should be seen hauling over the shoulder. Her father made a rather comically exaggerated effort when they set the thing down, which caused Ron to chuckle. He grinned in response, until he caught himself and forced the smile away.

"You took out the entire floor?" Cloe said from the opening of the door, "In half an hour?"

"Yeah," Ron said, "Once you get the hang of it…"

It seemed that Cloe readily accepted the lie. Most of his clients did. It was amazing to see how easily the muggles would accept a lie about something so obviously magical. He had rarely needed to careful in that sense; using magic in front of muggles was obviously still a problem.

Cloe handed Ron the can of paint, which he placed in the window sill. It was one of the few windows that would not need to be replaced.

"So," she said, moving to stand next to him, "Those supporting beams look really heavy. You must work out to be able to move them."

Ron had been afraid Cloe's flirting would intensify over time, and it that fear turned out not to be unfounded. She had made a couple of suggestive comments about how he looked nice, but which could easily be explained as friendly comments. She was progressively more oblique though.

"Maybe we can work out together sometime," she said, "You know, working up a sweat and such."

The look she gave him was unmistakable. She was definitely hitting on him, and was not going to be shy about it either. When he told her that working in construction was more than enough of a workout for him, and that he lived in another part of the country, which was too far away for just a workout, she replied that he was 'welcome to stay over for the night', and that 'they didn't just have to work out'.

Ron was unused to this sort of aggressive flirting. He had not been going out or socializing for years now, and had not been with another girl other than Hermione. It didn't feel right; he had never felt anything remotely the same for anyone other than her. His friends, the few of them he still saw, had invited him to join them when they went to a pub or disco, but he had always declined. He knew it was pathetic, and he felt that it was more than a little out-of-character for him, pining away over a long-lost love.

"I'm sorry, Cloe," he said, as he took hold of the hammer that he had discarded a half an hour earlier, "I'm not sure if that would be such a good idea."

He went up the stairs with the intent to go to the roof, but when he reached the first floor landing, he heard Hermione arguing with her mother.

"– just don't understand why you would choose him."

He frowned, and stopped moving involuntarily. From what he had heard through others (Ginny mostly) Hermione's mother had been one of the few people that had been openly critical to Hermione. It felt good to know she was on his side, when even he wasn't. It sounded like her opinion had changed though.

"Mom, I told you already, I can't afford – "

"Even so," her mother interjected, "You could do the renovation in parts. You didn't need to do everything at once."

"I don't want to live in a dump for the next few years."

"I understand, but it isn't that big of a dump. Not really. I mean, sure, the floor was a bit wobbly, and the roof a bit patchy, but even Ronald told you it wasn't something urgent. I just don't understand why you would specifically choose him for this job. Why would you make him go through all of that again?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, and Ron could tell by the tone of her voice that she was angry now, "_Make him go through all of that again?_"

A silence fell. He imagined Hermione standing with her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. _Scary_.

"Yes, Hermione," he heard her mother said, "I think it's safe to say he has let you go in his heart after five years. Imagine having to work with you for two whole weeks. Can you tell me the last day you two _didn't_ fight?" Hermione didn't answer. "Your father and I used to joke that you two couldn't go through a single day without being angry at each other. Do you think, given your past, that this is going to be easy for him? Please note that he got the brunt of it back then."

More silence.

"It isn't easy, Hermione," she said, "Not for you, but especially not for him. Keep that in mind tomorrow, when you find yourself in a row with him."

He heard movement, and took it as his queue to leave. He didn't want them to know he had overheard them talking. Making his way up to the attic, he started to wonder if taking this job was such a smart move…


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione was getting ready for their first day working together at the cottage. They would start at eight 'o clock, which was ten minutes from now. Ron told her he wanted to fix the roof first; after which he would start with the foundations. It seemed like a logical order in which to do things, and since he was the professional, she had agreed.

Hermione thought about the previous day. She had been afraid that Ron's presence would irritate her, or would bring back bad memories, but having him there had been great. She had forgotten his quick wit and easy smiles. Little about him had changed in that way over the past five years. He reminded her of their time at Hogwarts; the meaningless conversations by the fire in the common room, the bickering over little things that was mostly born from frustration over their feelings for each other. Seeing him across from her, drinking coffee while he was thinking about what needed to be done, had caused an immediate attack of melancholy in her. It also put in sharp relief the hurt and pain she had felt at not just losing him as a lover, but also as one of her best friends.

The conversation she'd had with her mother was also in her mind. It had been the only thing she could think of last evening. Why did her mother have to pick his side? And why had Hermione always know her to be right? That was the worst of it; not the fact that her mother was disappointed with her (a rare, but not unique experience), but that it had made her realize she was disappointed with herself too! They'd been having this discussion for five years now, and Hermione had tried to convince her mother to see her side of the story. A few years ago, she had realized she wasn't really trying to convince her mother, she was really trying to convince herself. She had then found herself countering Harry's indignation at Ron more and more, all the while growing desperately more disappointed with herself.

She knew the disastrous end of their relationship was as much her fault as his. Sometimes, she felt it was _more_ her fault than his. Acknowledging that was hard. Accepting it was harder, though. Accepting to herself that she was to blame for the one enormous failure in her life. The one gigantic disappointment. It had been easy to blame anyone but herself, but she had come to a point where she could no longer convince herself of her innocence. Yes, she had pushed him away as much as he did her. Yes, she was the first to slap him.

She wondered if their relationship would have survived if Ron had not slapped her back. Would Ron be gallant and choose to ignore it? Would they still be together, or would she have slapped him again in their next row? How long would that abuse (because that was what it was) have taken place before things had escalated to a point where she would not even have been able to hire him like she had now? What would it have done to Ron?

Picking up the mascara, she forced the thoughts from her mind. _No use dwelling on what could have been._ Finishing the make-up, she forced a comb through her hair and tied it down behind the back of her head with a hairclip.

She arrived at the cottage just after eight, and Ron was already there. Many of the clay shingles on the roof had been removed.

"Hey, Hermione," he said, "Good morning! I've made coffee, it's on the windowsill."

Carrying two cups of coffee upstairs, she noticed Ron set the clay tiles apart in neat stacks of five. It looked like he had been busy for a while.

"What time did you arrive?"

"Six," he said, looking a bit sheepish as he blew on his coffee, "I wanted to start early. Make up for lost time."

"Yes, I understand. Cloe is a sweet girl, but her being there yesterday only held us up."

"I've never met anyone who took ten minutes to put a screw into a wall… How often can you drop it?"

She smiled. Cloe was such a clutz. "Let's just say she has other qualities. You should see her in the kitchen making dinner. She makes me feel like I can't cook."

"I'm sorry to break this to you, but you actually can't," he said, wagging his eyebrows, "I know, I've had to endure your cooking for quite a while. Everything you make is either flat, undercooked, or burnt."

She looked at him mutinously.

"Cheer up," he said innocently, "You have other qualities."

Together, they spent the day fixing various parts of the roof. Ron expertly removed the rotten underlayment, which turned out to be more than soggy; Hermione could flex the wood with her bare hands. Ron mostly did all of the heavier or specific work that needed to be done. Hermione helped him by handing him the right tools, sawing some of the wood as per his instructions, or doing some simple spellwork. Twice had she summoned specific tools from the shed, and once had she charmed a falling clay tile to float in mid-air; Ron had accidentally nudged it from its place.

They had mended two of the four main leaks in the roof before lunch, which was the remainder of the sandwiches Cloe had brought with her the day before.

"These are delicious," Ron said, as he finished his third sandwich, "You should thank her for me."

"Why don't you go over to her place and thank her yourself? Maybe you can work out together to get those calories off again."

Ron didn't reply, but merely raised an eyebrow. _Where did that come from?_ Hermione thought, _All he did was compliment Cloe on her sandwiches… _Her reply sounded dangerously like jealousy.

They continued their work on the roof that afternoon, though they were a little more formal to each other than usual. Hermione spent half the time thinking about what she had said to Ron.


	11. Chapter 11

Ron got up at the crack of dawn. He showered quickly, then had a quick bite of breakfast before getting out the door and heading over to Hermione's cottage. He was staying over at his parents's house for a while, partly because he hated apparating, but also because he enjoyed walking to the cottage almost as much as he enjoyed his mother's cooking. He had looked up the quickest path to walk from the Burrow to Hermione's cottage a week earlier, and had been pleasantly surprised at the beauty and peace of it. His path took him through a small forest, past a couple of farms and their fields, and through a sleepy little village. He would arrive around half past six in the morning, and he would be able to get some work done before Hermione would come along.

Their first day of working together had been uncharacteristically easy. He had half expected them to row about everything, but time had passed almost as though at double speed. Hermione's angry outburst at lunch aside, they had not really had any sort of heated debate about anything.

The outburst was a surprise though. He could tell it had surprised Hermione too; she had fallen quiet almost immediately afterwards, and had hardly been able to look at him all afternoon. He wondered what it meant. _Apparently, she was jealous at Cloe. At least, that was what it looked like at the moment, and her reaction afterwards all but confirmed it._ But what could that mean? Could Hermione still be harbouring feelings for him? Was it just some sort of odd relapse into old habits triggered by his presence, or did she actually still feel as possessive of him as before?

That was a surprise five years ago. He had never expected Hermione to be so possessive of him. Any girl within a two-mile radius of him that gave him any sort of attention was likely to incur the wrath of Hermione. It made him feel strangely proud of her, and often led to fiery sex that evening. It unlocked some dormant part of both of them that required nurture every once in a while. Hermione's reaction would make him see just how special she was to him. She had told him that attention from other girls made her want him more. It made both of them feel like they had not seen each other in days, and were in desperate need of each other.

By the time Hermione had arrived Ron was already done checking the newly repaired parts of the roof for leaking, and was using a muggle device to check the foundations. When she arrived, he explained to her that the foundation was not in as bad a shape as he had thought it would be.

"It's sagged here and there," he said, pointing out the weakest areas of the foundation, "But the rest of the foundation has hardly moved. How old is this cottage again?"

"It's from 1936."

"In roughly sixty-five years, you can expect some movement of the foundation. If the ground on which the house is built is unsteady, you get that sort of things. The house presses down on the ground, and in two places, the ground can't take the pressure and wilts."

"Is that a problem?"

"Well," Ron said, "It could be a problem if the ground keeps sagging and buckling under the weight of the cottage. Luckily, I've measured some things, and it looks like both the cottage and the ground are firmly settled in now. I doubt there is going to be any damage from this, excepting earthquakes, tidal waves or bad spellwork."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Ron," she said, putting her hand on his arm, "I know I can trust you with this. I'm pretty sure any other contractor could have told me some technical story and charge me an expensive reparation I didn't need."

"Who said I won't?"

"Watch it, you!" she replied, "I've got an extensive range of magical birds I can summon now."

He smirked, then turned to his tools; rummaging around a bit. For the umpteenth time since yesterday, Ron wondered about his feelings for Hermione. Working for her was proving to be as hard and confusing as her mother had said it would be. His love for Hermione was still there, deeply buried underneath layers of anger and disappointment. He knew he still loved her, and probably always would. The intensity of it had died down though, over the past five years. He had been unable to picture her face in detail, nor did he wake up from dreams starring her. She was still in his mind in private moments though; she was the only experience he had to go by.

The emotions he had felt thinking about her had centred on the hurt and shame he had felt when they had fallen apart as a couple. But that anger and pain was fading. Sure, he had hated both himself and her when he had been out of the country, but that was years ago, and he hardly recalled it. It was just a feeling now: he would be angry because he felt angry.

He had noticed lately how his resolve never to see Hermione again had been weakening. He had seriously contemplated visiting the Weasley get-together on several occasions this year, though shame had always held him back. His feelings for Hermione, as diminished as they had become over the past years, were still there, and the layers of anger and shame covering them had thinned out.

"Let's get to work!" he said, more to himself than to Hermione.


	12. Chapter 12

After eight hours of checking the wood under the floor for rot and replacing those parts, Hermione felt thoroughly frustrated. They were less than half way through, and the floor of the kitchen and the small dining room still needed to be checked. Ron assured her that any damage under the floors of those rooms would be minimal, though she doubted it. This house was in such a poor condition that she was starting to rue the decision to buy it. She had seen a small apartment over a bookstore that had been nice. It had been a lot smaller though.

Her parents were due to arrive any moment. They had cleared the second half of their schedules to be able to drive from Oxford to her cottage, a three-hour commute considering traffic. They assured her that it wasn't a problem, and that they both greatly enjoyed the trips.

"I think your father is secretly glad to work less," her mother confided to her the day before, "We've been working sixty hour shifts for years now, and the change in pace is a breath of fresh wind."

"Tomorrow," Ron said, startling her out of her memory, "I think we will be finishing up this part of the house, and we will be able to check the kitchen and the dining room. The kitchen might surprise us with the plumbing, but I'll have to get under the floor to check it."

Ron had been a great motivator all day long. She would have been happy to fix the problem with magic, but he kept reminding her how that would not solve her problem permanently, and that it really was worth doing this now, when she wasn't living in the cottage yet. He had done the dirtier, tougher jobs, leaving the easy stuff to her. It was surprisingly gallant, yet she wondered if that was simply because she was a paying client of his. He was absently blowing his coffee. From outside, she could see headlights turning into her driveway. Her parents.

"You've got dirt on your nose," she said, smiling at the reference to how they first met, "It's also in your hair, and on your clothes."

"Well," he said, rubbing the wrong side of his long nose with his hands, "that's what you get when you get into a crawlspace."

Without thinking, she moistened her thumb and rubbed the mud from his face. His face burned red immediately, and so did hers in response. It wasn't meant to be anything but a friendly gesture, but the moment her thumb touched his face, she could feel how much this reminded her of their time together.

Her parents walked in just then; Hermione's hand on its way back, but still conspicuously close to his face. Her face burned up even brighter, if that was possible.

"Weasley," her father said, clearly angered, "You look like a mess."

"Nonsense dear," her mother interjected, "He looks like he has been working hard in your daughter's new cottage. Have you had dinner yet, Ronald?"

"No," Ron said, "But my mum is counting on me, so I had best be off."

Though Ron had left, her father continued his irritable and short routine all evening long. He grumbled a bit about the work they had done, clearly cross with the fact that he could not point out any obvious flaws or mistakes. Her mother fussed over him a little, and by the time they left, her father seemed marginally less angry. Hermione sat down on the floor of her kitchen. The cottage was almost stripped bare by now. The walls had been cleared of wallpaper, the kitchen fronts had been removed, even the floor had been stripped of its carpeting. Amidst the chaos of her new quarters, Hermione allowed herself a moment of reflection.

What was happening to her? First the irritation and anger at Cloe for hitting on Ron. Then, her outburst the other day, which was completely irrational. Now, that stupid action of rubbing his nose clean, which she had done without thinking. Surely there must be some reason for all of it. _I feel like I'm twenty-four going on fifteen, _she thought, _Like I'm some silly schoolgirl with a crush._

She groaned and hid her face in her hands. _I'm falling in love with him again.._


	13. Chapter 13

Ron was pushing his food on his plate. His mother and father had already finished and were politely talking to each other while they waited for him. With his fork, he had squashed all of his potatoes, and the contents of his plate now looked to be made of a single substance. Putting his knife and fork down, he decided forgo the effort of finishing his meal.

"Something wrong with dinner, Ronny?" his mother asked.

"No, mum, dinner was fine. I'm just not that hungry."

"Well, go get cleaned up then," she said, getting up and ushering him to the stairs, "You are covered in mud, _and you reek_."

He trudged up the stairs, not bothering to get a change of clothes but diving into the bathroom immediately. He got out of his clothes quickly, and hopped into the shower.

_Bloody hell,_ he thought, _I can't believe this is happening._

His mind brought him back to the moment when Hermione had touched his face. All of his senses had gone into overdrive, and it had taken a very long walk across the fields and through the forest for them to normalize. Hermione had touched his face, and like a giddy little schoolboy, his face had flushed and his nerves had frayed.

The warm water was doing nothing to loosen the knot that had formed in his gut. _Why the hell was she still making me feel this way? Why had these feelings not died down?_ Hermione was permanently in his mind these days, from dusk till dawn. He got up early each day feeling an uncontrollable desire to go to Hermione's cottage just to see her there. He left later each evening, his feet dragging. When he arrived home, his appetite for dinner was non-existent. In his sleep, he returned to the happier days of their relationship.

_Loss of appetite, recurring dreams, _he thought, _I'm back in fifth year. But this time, I know what it means. This time, I understand these are not problems, but symptoms. I've fallen in love with her again. Merlin's saggy left testicle!_

He washed his hair, feeling the dried flakes of dirt as his fingers massaged the shampoo in. He had been acting like a niffler in a gold mine, stupidly offering to do everything and letting Hermione sit next to him, holding a flashlight or handing him tools. _I must have looked like an ass,_ he thought desperately, _she must have thought me an idiot!_

He rinsed his hair clean, then put his head down and let the water wash over him. His muscles were knotted, and even the water could not undo them. Deciding to give up, he turned off the shower and dried himself off. Then, he went up to his old room for a change of clothes.

He was halfway through getting dressed when his mother called him from downstairs.

"Ronald," she said, "You have a visitor."

"Who is it?" he asked. Only a handful of people knew he was there, and he wasn't expecting any of them. There was no reply. His mother was probably offering his guest tea and biscuits by now.

He finished getting dressed as he walked down the stairs. He was just into one of his old Weasley jumpers when he entered the sitting room. Hermione was there. She looked nervous.

"Hey," he said lamely. He wanted to say more, and settled with "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you. About something."

_Hermione is being vague. Hermione is rarely vague. Why is she being vague?_

"Okay," he said, "About the renovation?"

"No," she replied, "Something else. Can we talk outside?"

_She wants to talk outside?_ _What does she want to talk in private for?_

He led her to the orchard, which lay in semi-darkness. The sun had gone down hours ago, and the only source of light in the orchard was the light that shone in from the kitchen. As they made their way outside in silence, Ron wondered what Hermione wanted to talk about. He would be seeing her the next day, so it had to be urgent. Perhaps they had stumbled across something problematic at the cottage that evening.

"So," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets just to have some place for them, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I think we should talk."

"So let's talk."


	14. Chapter 14

The Weasley orchard had always filled her with a sense of quiet serenity. As with everything in the Weasley household, the orchard had a slightly impoverished look, but was clearly tended lovingly. The trees had grown out of rank. One of the outermost had fallen down during a storm over a decade ago, and was straightened back up with a crude jumble of ropes and poles which now served mostly as a clothesline.

She wasn't sure why she had decided to come over and discuss her feelings with Ron, and her dread for what was going to be said had only increased over time. She had almost decided to turn tail, but Molly had already opened the door, having seen her through one of the windows. _Nothing escapes that woman._

"I'm not – err – quite sure what to say," she opened, "Perhaps it's just me, but I think you might feel the same, and –"

"Hermione," Ron interjected, but she pushed on, not knowing what to say, but desperate to say it.

"And if you feel the same – the same as what I feel –"

"Hermione," Ron said, a bit more forcibly this time, "You're babbling."

"Oh. Yes. Right." She fell silent.

"Hermione, just spit it out. Say what you want to say. It's just me…"

"I want to," she said, "I just don't know how to put into words what I feel. It's hard, you know?" She looked at him imploringly, desperate for him to understand, even if she didn't.

Ron looked troubled. He had an expression on his face as if he had been caught doing something naughty. The ground of the Weasley orchard was a slight incline, and Ron stood on the higher ground, making him even more imposing than usual. He towered over her, looking down at her with with a slight frown.

"I think I know what you mean," he said, "It feels strange, working with you. Like we're back at Hogwarts, doing an assignment together at the greenhouses, or practicing together at the DA. I keep reminiscing about what it was like."

"D-Do you, do you.." she stammered, unable to get the words out.

"Yes," Ron said, a bit uncertain. "Yes, I feel a little… _charmed_ by you again."

A bubble of emotions swelled in Hermione's chest. She had wondered if Ron was going through the same thing as her. She was still sorting out her feelings and emotions. She could only wonder what Ron was going through. To see him putting his emotions down so eloquently made her feel giddy. Ron could say such lovely things without knowing it sometimes.

"More than a little charmed, to be honest," he continued, "Every morning, when you arrive, I think back at when we were together. I keep thinking back to what drove us apart. I don't really remember anymore."

"It wasn't just one thing," Hermione said, "There wasn't a single issue or mismatch that made us end up hating each other. It was everything put together at the same time."

Ron, who had been looking at his trainers for a while now, suddenly looked up. "I never hated you," he said, "Not when we were still together. I hated what we had become. I hated how everything you said sounded like criticism at me. How little time we could spend together, and how we no longer sought each other's arms when we were."

"Perhaps 'hate' was a wrong choice of words," she said, "Perhaps 'resent' fits better. I resented you for being angry at me whenever I spoke about Fred. I resented you for stopping to try and make something out of it."

"I resented you for that too," he whispered.

For a moment they just stood there, quietly looking at each other. Ron's silhouette towering over her, his hair dark save for the tips which were illuminated by the light spilling from the kitchen behind him. Hermione was reminded of just how handsome she thought Ron was, with his long frame and always-too-long-by-a-inch red hair. Reaching out to touch his arm, she sighed.

"Ron, I want to keep working with you this week and the next. I feel at ease around you. I'm sure these emotions will settle back down soon, and things will return to normal."

Ron looked a little dismayed, but did not object. She was glad he didn't, because she really wanted to continue working with him. He did a lovely job, and as much as it stirred up old emotions and feelings, she really did enjoy being with him again.


	15. Chapter 15

A couple of days had passed since their awkward talk in the orchard, and things had improved little. Conversation between him and Hermione had become forced and difficult. Ron didn't know what to say to her. He didn't want to sound too forward, so complimenting her on a good job or saying her hair looked nice was out. He didn't want to sound too restrained either. His feelings for Hermione had mostly resurfaced by now, and he genuinely wanted to see her smile and feel happy. It was confusing.

Hermione had seemingly gone through the same thing, so in the end, their conversation had become a bit overly formal and business-like.

"Could you be bothered to hand me that saw?" he said, pointing vaguely behind him while he fixed a bit of wood in a workmate.

"Of course," she said, "which one would you like?"

"The handsaw please," Ron said, reaching out behind him while still focussing on fixing the wood to the workmate. After a moment, he felt Hermione press a saw into his hand. He immediately felt that it was the wrong kind.

"This is a junior saw. I need a hand saw."

"Well get it yourself then," Hermione snapped.

They had started rowing again. It had started two days ago, around noon. Hermione had been busy putting up new wallpaper in one of the bedrooms when he needed her to make a decision about the wood downstairs. There was a slight difference in height between the floor of the living room and that of the kitchen. Hermione would have to tell him how she wanted it fixed. When he entered the room, he found her standing on a pair of steps, gently pressing the first half of the wallpaper onto the wall. He wanted to tell her it was a little off, but wisely kept his mouth shut when he heard her mutter under her breath.

"Hermione?" he had asked, "I need your help with something."

"Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Yes," he replied, "but I can't continue finishing the floor unless you tell me how you want the connection to the kitchen."

"Well I guess you have to wait for a moment then!" she snapped, "Because I'm busy hanging up wallpaper."

There was a sizable stack of discarded wallpaper next to her. It looked like Hermione was not very successful in hanging up wallpaper. Knowing when not to anger her any more than necessary, Ron suggested he'd do the first lane, so she would have a reference.

"The first lane is always difficult. It has to be perfectly straight, or you'll notice that the floral pattern is skewed a bit when you finish the entire wall."

"I don't need any help, thank you very much," she said in a huff, turning to look at him angrily, "I've managed to do things on my own for five years now!"

"No need to snap my head off," Ron replied angrily, "I'm just trying to help. I'll busy myself with something else until you deign to grace me with your presence downstairs."

He turned away, leaving an angry Hermione behind him, tssking at him.

When she had come down a couple of minutes later, they did not discuss the fight. Hermione offered him a cup of coffee, and Ron explained the problem with the floor to her. She weighed the different options, and picked the solution that was most elegant. The rest of the day had followed without any noticeable incident.

Ron put the junior saw down on the floor and selected the hand saw from the clutter of tools that surrounded him. Hermione had asked him why he wasn't more organised, but Ron had simply stated that he knew where most of his tools were, and that he liked to go on at full speed with a task. He wasn't getting paid to keep his tools neat.

The slight quarrel about the hand saw was one of many they now had throughout the day. Hermione was quick to anger, though she had offered an apology if things got out of hand. She said she was stressed at work, and that it wasn't really him she was angry with, but the world in general. Ron suspected as much. Hermione had always vented her irritation and stress with him, and her doing so now only made sense. If things were getting back to normal between the two of them, then rowing would be part of it.

Ron had lashed out at her too. His mum had been pestering him about wanting to visit the cottage at some point, and had asked him to set up a date for it with Hermione. He had forgotten to do so twice, and she had been harping at him for doing it ever since. When he saw Hermione arrive for a new day of working in the cottage, he had been irritated, and had taken it out on her, for running a little late. He had apologized afterwards, and Hermione had dismissed the whole thing, telling him she really wasn't bothered by it, and reaching into her purse for an agenda, had started scheduling the visit.

He left the cottage around seven 'o clock in the evening. He was leaving later and later every day, and in some dark corner of his mind, he knew he that was deliberate; he wanted to extend his time with Hermione as much as possible. Things were normalizing between them. He wondered if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. Were they going to be angry at each other all day long again, or would it be different this time? A second knot had formed in his stomach. The first was about his feelings for Hermione, the second was about what the next week and a half would bring.


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione huffed. She could not help it. She had been on a warpath for days now. Cowering before her desk at the ministry was a clerk. He had delivered a message from the Wizenmagot, her proposal for Elfish Welfare had been pushed back on the agenda. It was now the last item on the list. The Wizenmagot was a bunch of mostly elderly wizards and witches. Most of them could hardly remain seated on the hard wooden benches. Hermione knew this meant that the Wizenmagot tended to glance over the last few proposals in their hurry to wrap up the day. It would probably be voted on after a cursory discussion, which meant that her chances of swaying even one of them had been significantly reduced.

"Go!" she bristled, knowing that it was unfair to vent her anger at the young kid that looked like he had just finished studying at Hogwarts, but she could not stop herself, "Out of my office!"

It was late. She had taken two weeks off to work at the cottage, but an urgent call from one of her co-workers had gotten her back to the ministry. Apparently, there had been a house elf which had been fired over the weekend. The poor imp had wandered around diagon alley all night long, and had been discovered by an old friend of Hermione's, Katie Bell. She had taken the creature to St. Mungo's, and had called the ministry.

Hermione had quickly learned to be subtle with the elves. Speaking of wages and free time was considered blatantly rude, and though she had not intended too, the little support she had attracted had mostly vanished by the end of her first year in office. She had changed tactics then. Now, she ran a program for fired elves. They would be placed in good homes, with pro-liberation owners. They would not be paid, nor would they have the free time Hermione felt was their right, but at least they would be working, and at least they would experience a home that did not treat them as slaves. She hoped that by placing these elves in a good home, they would warm up to the idea as being servants, not slaves.

Ironically, Ron had had been the one to think of this idea. He had mentioned numerous times whenever Hermione had been too forceful, that she should just let the elves do what they want, but place them in better homes. It was quietly brilliant, but because her relationship with Ron had fallen apart long before the program had started operating, she had never really thanked him. She had tried to pay him due respect by naming the program "Redeemed of Non-employment", or RoN, in short.

Most of the first house-elves had been highly suspicious. Word had gotten round of her exploits in the past, and so, most of the elves distrusted her offer to send them to a different family. In the end, the near-uncontrollable desire of the house-elves to be of service would persuade them, and all but the most mistreated elves agreed that it was for the better.

Slowly, her reputation had changed from being a trickster to being a saviour. She hoped that given enough time and effort, she could start making progress. To effectuate change.

She checked the time. Her appointment was in ten minutes. It wouldn't take long to get there, she could use the floo network to go to her apartment, then floo from there to her final destination. She wasn't going to floo directly from the ministry. They had no business knowing where she was headed.

She arrived a couple of minutes early. Taking a seat on the soft couch, she flipped through a couple of magazines, until the door opened and her therapist called her in. Greeting her warmly, she motioned Hermione to the familiar leather recliner that she had been regularly visiting for a couple of years now.

"How are you feeling, Hermione?" she asked. It was always the first question she asked, and as usual, Hermione pretended for a moment to arrange her clothing before answering.

"I'm feeling good," she said, "I'm a little peaked about work, but nothing serious."

"Good!" she said, "You mentioned being stressed a couple of sessions ago. How do you feel now?"

Hermione thought back. She had been feeling stressed for a while now. Conservative wizards and witches on influential positions had been consistently trying to thwart her every move. The rescheduling of her proposal was probably a result of that.

"I still feel stressed, but I'm on a break for a while, so I guess it isn't on the foreground at the moment."

Hermione knew her therapist would try to steer the conversation to Ron. Telling her about her renovation plans might not have been a good idea. It was nice to vent her feelings with her therapist, but the moment she mentioned that Ron was the contractor, her therapist had leaned forward. After a moment of pause, she had asked her how she felt about it. Hermione had read a couple of books about psychiatry, so she knew it was going to be the start of a whole string of questions.

"What about your private life?" she asked.

"The renovation is going along wonderfully," she replied coolly, trying to hide her frustration about the project, "Ron is very skilled at what he does."

Her therapist nodded, but said nothing. _She is waiting for me to continue._ Hermione steeled herself. She wasn't going to keep bleating on like the average patient.

"He's really skilled," she said, "my living room floor is completely level now." _Why did I say that?_

Her therapist continued to nod. She scribbled something in a notepad.

"He's out fixing my electricity now," she said, "The whole cottage needs to be rewired."

And suddenly, Hermione found herself crying.


	17. Chapter 17

He arrived back at the Burrow at seven 'o clock. His mum was putting the final touches on dinner. Standing in the opening of the kitchen, Ron looked at her for a moment. His mother was a powerful woman. After giving birth to seven children, she had still managed to do all of the household chores on her own. She had faced danger and persecution from the Death Eaters and Voldemort, and had finished off one of the most powerful witches in the country. Also: Fred and George.

Now, she was starting to age. Fred's death had hit her hard. She had seemed to have aged ten years between the battle of Hogwarts and his funeral. Her hair was thinning, and though she painted it faithfully every week, more and more grey hairs seemed to peep out. She wore her hair shorter now. She could no longer remain standing for hours on end. Ron had installed a small bar stool for her to sit on behind the stove.

His father sat in his usual chair by the fire. They were living on their own now, all of their children having moved out of the house. His parents had told him they were very happy with him being there for a while. They had missed him something awful when he had been abroad, and when he returned, Ron had set out to find an apartment almost immediately.

Tonight was more festive though. Harry and Ginny were present. They had dropped the kids off at George and Angelina, desiring a quiet evening at the Burrow for a change. That was one of the benefits of having lots of brothers and sisters. There was always somebody who could look after your children for an evening. Ron often offered to take care of the kids; they loved their goofy uncle, and he loved them just as much.

Ron would have loved to have started a family by now. He had hoped that his relationship with Hermione would lead to that at some point, but their falling apart had left that as nothing more than a bittersweet dream. He still dreamt of it though, and lately, that dream had started to surface more and more often. Last night, he had been walking home when he passed the small community that he crossed through every day on his way to the cottage. He had looked into one of the muggle houses, and saw a man of roughly his age holding up a little child. His wife was looking at her husband in adoration. Ron had felt a stab of pity and despair. _Why isn't that in the cards for me?_

"Hello mum," he said, getting in and closing the door behind him, "Have Harry and Ginny arrived yet?"

"Yes," she said, walking over to place a kiss on his cheek, "They are in her old room. Ginny wanted to go through her old scrapbooks."

Ron bade his father a good evening, then stomped up the stairs a little louder than necessary. He didn't want to walk into them going at it like he had done a couple of months after the war. That memory brought him back momentarily to the first few months he had been together with Hermione. It was undoubtedly the happiest period of his life; talking about life, experiencing all of the benefits of being in a serious, adult relationship. It still bothered him that he could not point at a single moment that their relationship had changed.

He found Harry and Ginny sitting on the bed, both with a scrapbook on their laps.

"Hey," he said, pausing under the doorway, "How are you guys? How's the kids?"

Ginny looked up and smiled sweetly at him. She spoke of James's first home tutoring, and her own career. Harry just sat in silence, looking down at the pictures from their shared past.

"What about you, Harry?" he tried, when Ginny finally ran out of immediate topics she wanted to discuss, "What's being an auror like?"

Harry looked up. His face was impassive, but he knew Harry was feeling emotional. His fingers were drumming the book, and though Ron had not been with Harry as intensively as they once did, he could still read him like an open book.

"It's fine. I'm currently apprenticed to an auror from Scotland. Total wanker, but he gets the job done."

"I've been meaning to ask about the academy," Ron said, "But something always came up. What was it like?"

For a moment, Harry's mask of indifference broke and a genuine smile crossed his face. He covered it up immediately. "You'd love it," he said, "I was underfed, cold, and miserable for two years straight. And that was the fun part!"

"Could one of you help your mother set the table?" his father yelled from below. Ginny instantly got up, handing him the scrapbook that she had been studying and leaving both men alone for the first time in a long while. Ron could feel a bit of tension grow between them.

"You know I'm sorry," he said, after the tension seemed to become unbearable. He sat down next to Harry on Ginny's old bed. "I've been walking around feeling ashamed for what I've done for years now."

Harry was silent. His eyes focussed on the book on his lap, he fingered the corner of one of the pages.

"I've been angry with you for so long," he said after a while, "that it is hard for me to let it go. I know things got heated back then. I know you hate yourself for striking her, but I just can't let that anger go.."

"I know, mate," Ron said, "I know you hate me for it. Just know that I hate myself all the more because of it."

For a moment, the two men seemed to be in their own, separate worlds of hurt and grief. Ron thought back at how much he had hated himself in the past five years. He had been a wedge in the happiness of his family and friends. He had loathed himself to a point where he'd had difficulty getting out of bed to participate in life. He had run away from his entire world for a year. _Brave Gryffindor I am._


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione arrived early. Ron had blown up about her being late a couple of days ago, and she didn't want to give him another reason to be angry at her. She knew it had little to do with her actually being late, and more to do with their continued closeness. Her talk with the therapist had helped; she had spent fifty of the sixty minutes she was in the room crying and blubbering like a fool, but it had cleared her mind and lightened her heart.

"Hi," she said, trying to sound casual. He had been working alone all day yesterday, and she wanted to see how much he had done.

They were outside. Ron was gathering a couple of boxes containing copper wire. Which he was currently installing in her upstairs bedroom.

"Hey," he said, sounding remarkably like his former self. Self-conscious, she pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I've finished the rooms upstairs, I'm going to start on rewiring the kitchen now."

"Okay," she said, impressed with his speed. "How was dinner?"

"It was nice. Ginny and Harry were there. We had Treacle Tart, naturally."

Hermione smiled. His mum always made Treacle Tart when Harry came over.

"How's Ginny doing?" she asked, as she opened the door of her cottage. "Still upset over being sidelined?"

"Yeah," he said, while her eyes scanned the living room walls, "She might have mentioned that once or twice. Every. Single. Bloody. Minute."

He smiled at her, but his smile soon faltered. Ron had ripped open most of the walls and had removed all of the old hardware. The outlets were all at shoulder-height, and he had carved a trench down from each of them to new wall outlets at ankle-height. They had discussed lowering the outlets briefly before they started working, but Hermione had not made a final conclusion about it then. She had been pushing the decision forward because there always seemed to be something else to do at that moment, and had forgotten it a little while ago. It seemed that Ron had taken matters into his own hands.

"You lowered the outlets?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, dropping the boxes of cables on the floor and turning to her, "Why, was that wrong?"

"Well," she said, feeling a surge of irritation blooming in her gut, "You might have tried mentioning it before doing so…"

"You'd be crazy not to," Ron said, "Nobody wants outlets at shoulder-height."

"Last time I checked, it was my cottage, Ron, not anyone else's. You should have asked me!"

"You were at work!" he replied with a sneer, "I was stuck here doing all the work."

"I'm paying you to do all the work!" she said angrily.

"Well I can't do that if you don't tell me what to do!" he bellowed, his voice booming through the living room hollowly. "I did what was logical, and what most people would only deem logical. If this was my house, I'd want it low!"

"Well you're not going to be living here, are you?"

Ron took a step backwards as though he was punched. His face was a mask of hurt and anger. He said nothing, but made a direct path towards the door, and left the cottage. Hermione was breathing hard. _Why is Ron walking away?_

She made her way out too, following Ron without thinking about it. She had half expected him to apparate out (she had yet to put up the charms for that), but Ron merely walked ahead blindly, long legs covering the ground fast. She had to half-run to keep up with him.

Ron took a right hand turn which directed him towards a small forested area Hermione had not yet headed to before. She picked up the pace, now running after him. As she caught up to him, she heard him sniff, and his hands reached up to his eyes. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Hermione was still standing a couple of feet away from him. She found that she was crying too. Without turning, Ron spoke up.

"I know I'm not going to live here, Hermione," he said slowly, his breathing deep but ragged, "I know I threw that chance away years ago. You don't have to remind me of it."

She wanted to say something, but words didn't come.

"Hitting you was the worst mistake of my life," he said, "It's ruined my life, and I haven't felt happy since."

"I miss you, Ron."

She had said it aloud, but the words didn't sound as strong as she had imagined they would be. Perhaps they weren't as strong as they _should_ be. But she meant them.

"I've been seeing a therapist for a couple of years now," she continued, "Because I couldn't get over what had happened."

He turned to her in shock. His eyes were alive with fear.

"I – I – I didn't… I never meant –"

He turned away from her again. "I never meant to ruin your life too. I'm sorry."

"We had a breakthrough yesterday," she continued, wanting to get it off her chest, "And I suddenly realized a lot of things I should have seen years ago."

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Ron continued. It was like they were both having their own conversation. "If you want, I'll leave. You never have to see me again. I won't even charge you for the work I've done."

"Ron, listen to me," she said, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder, "Ron, it was all my fault!"


	19. Chapter 19

Ron could honestly say that he had rarely felt more horrible. Hermione had needed professional help. For years. What an utter pile of crap had he made of both their lives?

"Ron, it was all my fault!"

She had grasped his arm and the force of it turned him on the spot. Hermione was crying too, big tears rolling down her face.

"It was all my fault, Ron!" she said desperately.

"No, Hermione," he said, "I hit you. I should never have done that."

"I hit you first," she countered, her head bowed, "I hit you because I couldn't handle your grief over the loss of Fred."

He staggered back. For the second time in under five minute, Hermione had said something that shook his very core. Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he stared at her.

"You – My – What?"

"Doesn't it bug you that there wasn't a clear reason why we kept having fights? Why we were always going at each other's throats?"

"It was just because of everything together," he said, "We just didn't match."

"Yes we did," she said, "Don't you remember that first summer?"

"Of course I do," he said.

"I remember laying on your bed in August. It was early in the morning, but the sun was already out and it had been so warm the day before that it was only comfortable laying on top of the bed. I remember thinking I had never been happier before. We talked about so much that morning. That was the first time I told you about wanting to buy a cottage with a red door."

"I do remember that," Ron said, "That is one of my more precious… My most intimate…"

"I remember thinking about how alike we were, how much we had in common."

"So how is this all _your_ fault then?" Ron said, his eyes still moist and fixed directly at her.

"When was the last time we talked about Fred?" she asked. "Really talked I mean, not just mentioned him, but discussed about his death fully and openly."

"I – I don't remember."

"I know, Ron," she said, "Because we never did."

"But that was my fault," he said, "I know you tried to talk about it once or twice."

"I did," she said, "I tried. Once or twice. And when you only replied in anger or changed the subject, I let it pass. I didn't force you to talk about it. I didn't wait for you to go through your period of grief. I just let it pass, and because of that, it festered between us. You started talking to Harry about Fred, and to George. But not me."

"But that is my fault!" he insisted, "Mine alone!"

"No, Ron," she maintained, "It was mine. I should have stood by you. I should have kept my own temper and held you close, instead of lashing out and pushing you away. When Harry told me you had talked to him, I felt angry with you for trusting him, and not me."

"But that was just a short talk with Harry. He kept pushing me about talking with George about the joke shop, and I sort of just broke down. I didn't mean to make you feel like I trusted him more than I trusted you!"

"I know," she said, "but that was how it made me feel. I felt betrayed and angry that you couldn't share that with me."


	20. Chapter 20

Her session at the therapist had taken its usual sixty minutes, but Hermione had only just calmed down enough to truly discuss the matter. When the doorbell rang a couple of minutes later, her therapist had excused herself, and had returned saying that she had rescheduled her next appointment, so Hermione could have a double session. She wanted to strike the iron while it was hot, and Hermione felt very grateful that she had. It had been an emotional two hours, but had left feeling re-invigorated.

Right now, though, Hermione felt quite the opposite. Ron was still standing there, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, but still managing to look strikingly handsome to her. She assumed she looked rather different. Her nose tended to get runny when she cried, and ugly red blotches would appear in her neck. _I probably look like a shipwreck!_

"I feel so ashamed for what you had to go through because of my mistakes," she said, noting the forlorn and destitute tone in her voice, "You and I fell apart because of me."

"Hermione," Ron said, his voice lower than usual, "Neither of us was the reason we fell apart. It was because we were both in a bad place. You had piles of schoolwork and your parents had just returned from Australia. I remember how long it took for the three of you to work out the kinks in your relationship. I know how upset they were at you when their memories were set right.

"I was going through my grief with Fred's death. I can't say I handled it really well. Heck, even George had closure before I could. It was hard on me, and I didn't let you in, even if I did want to share all of my thoughts with you. We could have had such a great time, if I had opened up to you, like you had to me."

"Can't we just forget about everything in the past?"

"No, Hermione," Ron said. The force of that simple statement started a fresh bout of crying. Trying to hide her face in her hands, Hermione turned away from Ron.

"If we forget about the past," he continued in the low voice that sent shivers down her spine, "We'll make the same mistakes in the future. I've tried to hide from the past when I left the UK. I had hoped that being somewhere else would make it easier. It didn't. It only got worse."

She felt his hand on her shoulder, and the minimal amount of force he exerted was enough to turn her to him. Feebly, she sniffed her nose, rubbing fresh tears from her cheeks.

"Hermione," he said, "Let's try and give it another go. If what you feel for me is half of what I feel for you, I'm sure we can make it work."

Hermione stood petrified. Was this real? Could Ron really be suggesting what she thought he was? Was he actually suggesting that he and her get back together? Was that even possible? She had certainly entertained the thought these past few weeks. Ron seemed burned in her memory every time she went to bed to sleep, and he was the first thing she thought of when she awoke. Could they actually be together again? Could they leave the past behind?

She was instantly reminded of Ron's presence in front of her. He was close; closer than her had been in all of the time they had spent together. She didn't know if it had been a deliberate choice or if they had naturally kept their distance from each other, but right now, in this instance, Ron took up all of the space in her immediate surroundings. He looked down at her, his piercing blue eyes filled with a sad longing that she now realized had always been there.

"I – I – We need – I can't – I want to…" Controlling herself, she breathed in deep, and released that breath slowly. "Can we?" she finally said.

"If we want to," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "If we put in the effort."

"Do we have to decide now?" she asked.

"Nope," he said, his half-smile transforming into a bit of a goofy grin.

"What are you laughing about?" she asked, swatting his arm playfully.

"I'm just amazed that we are actually discussing this," he said, "It's been such a long time. I never expected us to try and get back together."

"Well we can't just get back together like that, can we?" she said, "I mean, we have to think of what it would mean. How would everyone react? Can we be sure we don't hit each other again?" She realized she was mostly asking these questions to herself.

"Nope," he said, "No guarantees. No assurances. No nothing."

"But how can we –"

"We will have to work for it," he said, "Open up to each other. Respect each other's opinions. Learn to take life less serious."

She had the suspicion that his last statement was more meant for her than for him. She looked up at him. He was still standing there, so close, and so tall. His hand was still on her shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of the pine trees surrounding them, but she could also smell him, a scent that brought her back to the Gryffindor common room. She remembered sitting across from him at wizards chess. She recalled that night when she had fallen asleep against his side, waking up well into the night alone with Ron in the common room. She recalled that hot afternoon in August, when they simply could not get up out of bed, and had decided to stay there, pressed against each other in his just-too-small bed. Images of beads of sweat on thighs and swollen lips flashed before her eyes.

She took a step forward, which brought her up against him. His arms found their way around her small frame, hugging her close to him. Pressing her head against his chest, she inhaled his own scent. He smelled deep and strong like the scent of the pine trees around them. She had cried so much these past few years, and she hoped that this first step would usher in a new period of change. That Ron and she would be able to find each other again. A new and improved version of them together. More experienced, less volatile.

"Let's not get carried away," she murmured, "I don't want us to screw things up by going into overdrive. Baby steps."

"Baby steps," he agreed, resting his head onto hers.


	21. Chapter 21

_If this was baby steps_, Ron thought, _then we're talking about a pretty massive baby._

Hermione was flirting with him. Not in the _glance-at-you-and-then-look-away-awkwardly-when-caught_ kind of way which they had practiced so much at Hogwarts, but in an infinitely less subtle way. Ron had just taken out the original wiring from one wall outlet to the distribution box, and had replaced them temporarily with tension spring, which would pull the new wiring in with it when he pulled that out the other side. He had just attached the black, brown, and blue wires and gave Hermione a thumbs up to show that she could start pulling the spring. She just stared at him with a single eyebrow raised, one hand on the end of the tension spring, the other on her hip. There was something wildly suggestive about that pose. Letting her hand slide over the spring, she grasped it and pulled.

Ron gulped and focussed on the task at hand. The wires were pulled along fine by his guidance, and together, they managed to pull the spring free again. Ron finished the installation (Hermione knew nearly everything about anything, but had an irrational fear of getting zapped by the electricity, so she wouldn't go near any of the wires themselves), and tested the outlet. It worked.

"So what is the black wire for?" she asked.

"It is connected to the right-most outlet and the light switch," he replied, "When you flip it, the light goes on, but you also put power on the right outlets."

"Why would I want that?" she asked, genuinely interested.

"Let's say you have a number of standing lamps. If you connect those to regular outlets, then you will have to flip the switch on each one in turn. If you plug them into the right-most outlets, then –"

"– then the light switch will turn all of them on at the same time. Brilliant!"

He had been installing the electrical wiring in homes like this for years, and though everyone seemed to think that it was his idea, he was the first to correct them. It was actually quite common, and had been done like this of decades. He chose not to correct Hermione this time, quite pleased with the reaction he had provoked.

"So now what?" she asked, as this was the last of the wall outlets whose electrical wiring was to be replaced.

"Now we have to repair the damage to the wall," he replied, taking out his wand. It was moments like these that Ron was very grateful to be able to use magic. Pointing at a bag of quick-mix concrete, he lifted it up in the air, and poured the contents into a tub. Adding just the right amount of water, he mixed it effortlessly with his wand. Then, another casual flick of his wand made the concrete fly out to the damaged portions of the wall, filling it completely. A regular contactor would have spent at least an hour on it.

"Time for lunch?" he asked, stowing away his wand.

"All right," she said, "But not here. I want to go someplace different today. We've been cooped up here all week long, so I want to buy you lunch."

Ron smiled. Going out for lunch together was one of the most classic of dates, right after going to the movies, or having dinner together. _So much for baby steps._

"That would be great," he said, "but I doubt any lunchroom would accept me dressed like this."

"Yes," she said, eyeing him critically, "You do look a bit dirty. There's sawdust on your knees, and paint on your sleeves. Besides, _you reek_!"

"So a visit to anywhere civilized is out," he said, pointedly ignoring her jibe, "Which leaves us, what? The Burrow?"

"No," she said, "I want to have lunch with you today, not with your family."

"I thought so," he replied, inwardly thinking the same thing, "So where to then?"

Suddenly, she smiled. "Your place!"

Ron's grin faltered. "M-My place?"

"Yeah!" she said grinning from ear to ear, "I'd love to see what sort of messy hole you live in!"

"Hey!" he started, but she wouldn't let him change her mind.

"We'll stop by the super on the way over," she continued, "I'll get some bacon and lettuce. Some tomatos. Bread. Butter."

"Errr, Hermione," he said, "I'm not sure if that's such a good idea, really. I haven't been there for a while. I should really clean it a little first."

"Nonsense," she said, "It would detract from the experience!"

She seemed to be genuinely enthusiastic about it, so Ron humoured her. Together, they made a quick stop at a supermarket, buying all of the ingredients for a nice lunch. Hermione insisted on paying, which Ron didn't mind; he knew being gallant or chivalrous would not be appreciated.

"So," she said, "Side-along apparation? I don't know where you live, see."

They had gone around the back of the store, hiding behind a row of dumpsters which smelled pungently of cabbage. Hermione was holding the bag of groceries in one hand, and held out the other. When he took hold of it, she stepped forward, pressing herself against him in such a way that Ron was grateful they were hidden from view behind the dumpsters; there didn't seem to be any part of her body that wasn't pressed against him. Picturing his small apartment in his mind's eye, Ron turned on the spot and left with a resounding crack.

The corridor leading up to his small studio apartment was perfect for apparation. Ron had been interested in a couple of apartments when he had arrived back in the UK, and though he had been able to buy bigger apartments, the corridor of this one had sold it to him. It ran from the main stairwell to several different apartments, then went around a corner to the final apartment, which was his. The corner allowed him to apparate to his front door without having to worry about being seen.

He took out his wand and tapped the doorknob. Several locking mechanisms clicked, allowing him physically to open the door, while the four wards that sealed the door magically at the same time morphed to admit both himself and Hermione. She obviously felt it, as she stirred when he reached for the doorknob.

"A bit much, no?" she said somewhat uncertain.

"Better safe than sorry," he replied, opening the door and stepping through. His apartment looked untouched from the last time he had left it, which was mostly due to the cleaning charms he had picked up from his mother in the past few years, and the Roomba that kept the floor clean in his absence. He heard Hermione gasp in surprise behind him.

"No so much a dingy hole after all, huh?" he said. He turned to watch her. Hermione stood in the doorway, her eyes flitting left and right, taking in the apartment. They stopped when she saw one of the pictures that hung over his couch. Once more, she gasped. He was afraid she would.


	22. Chapter 22

Ron's apartment was nothing like she had expected it to be. She thought it would be a jumbled mess of quidditch gear on the sofa, unwashed dishes in the sink, and filthy clothes on the floor. It looked as if the apartment had just been cleaned by a house elf though! The floor was immaculate, as were the kitchen counters. The couch, a dark leather monstrosity in the shape of an L, stood in one corner, facing a television that looked as if it was mounted onto the wall.

"The television is a widescreen Phillips. It is only fifty centimetres deep, so I made a niche in the wall that would fit it. Looks cool huh?"

Again, her eyes flicked to the picture hanging above his couch. _I'm not going to ask a question about it yet_, she told herself, _Let's just get a bite to eat first._

She walked into his kitchen, which was surprisingly modern. She had noticed how wizards born from wizarding families tended to have rather traditional home decorations. The Burrow was a prime example for this, with its crowded living room, and ancient kitchen. Even after the boys had left their parents's house, neither Molly nor Arthur had felt like redecorating. Money was hardly any problem by now, as his father made a good living higher up in the ministry food-chain.

"Your apartment is lovely, Ron," she said, hoping to cover her surprised reaction to the picture moments ago, "You have a great eye for decorating."

"Hardly," he said, "Most of the design was made by an architect I befriended a while ago. I had done some work on his house, he did some work on mine."

"It's not just the design, Ron," she said, opening a drawer to find a knife, "It's everything. You have good taste."

"Well," he said, his voice in mock arrogance as he slid behind her and opened another drawer to produce a long bread knife, "Good taste in women at least."

She gingerly took the knife from him. Ron had been flirting with her like this ever since they had returned from the forest to the cottage. It made her feel warm inside. _Baby steps,_ she reminded herself, _Baby steps._

She cut the bread while he busied himself cleaning the lettuce and the tomatoes. Taking a skillet from another cupboard, she placed it on the furnace to start frying the bacon, but Ron quickly tried to take over.

"Hermione, I remember your cooking," he said, "Please allow me."

"No, Ron," she said, keeping a firm grip on the skillet and tossing in a tiny bit of olive oil, "Like you, I've picked a couple of skills since then."

She waited for the oil to get to the right temperature before putting in the bacon. That had been the most important lesson she had learned about cooking since their seventh year; be patient. She had overcooked nearly everything back then, thinking that a hot fire would be better than a low fire. She put four slices of bacon into the skillet, humming softly as she was prone to when cooking.

Less than ten minutes later, Ron and Hermione sat at his couch, a plate on both their laps, eating a BLT. She had seasoned it, adding a little bit of salt to the tomatoes right after Ron had cut them. That had taken him by surprise, but he grudgingly admitted that it did taste wonderfully. He had been complimenting her cooking ever since.

"Really, Hermione," he said, "This is great! You should write a book about cooking. I'd be the first to buy it."

Her eyes strayed up slowly, focussing once more on the picture above the couch. She had not asked about it yet, but knew that it was only a matter of minutes before she would crack. It had taken her by such surprise that she couldn't keep from glancing at it. It was as if her eyes were drawn inexplicably to it. She knew Ron had noticed. He fell silent every time she did.

"Look," he suddenly said, his voice grave, and the BLT in his hand forgotten, "I just – I really like that picture. It doesn't mean anything. Please don't be angry about it."

She took a moment to form a reply. She wanted to tell him she didn't mind, but she didn't want to sound forced. She wanted to say that it did mean something, but she didn't want to sound like a know-it-all. Opening her mouth twice, without producing a sound, she breathed deep to calm herself.

"I'm not angry, Ron," she said, "If anything, I'm flattered."

Again, her eyes travelled up. Hung above Ron's couch were two pictures, enlarged to at least three by five foot each. One of them was unmistakeably Harry. The picture was taken by Colin, she knew, because it had graced the front page of the Daily Prophet one day after the fall of Voldemort. Harry had been walking in circles around Voldemort, and at one point, Colin had taken up his camera and snapped a picture of him. Zoomed in oddly, only a black mop of hair was visible, the scar on his forehead shining bright, and his green eyes, hidden behind his glasses, fixed at his nemesis. It was perhaps one of the most powerful icons of the entire war, and it had been reproduced often.

The other picture was the one that kept drawing her attention. It was another close-up, but this one was taken by Ron himself. She knew, because she was the topic of the picture. It was a picture he had snapped of her while she was asleep. Her stomach was visible, as her shirt had ridden up. Her knickers were visible, but blurry, as were the white sheets and the hand near her waist. Her face wasn't visible at all. It was just a picture of her body, and it looked strangely serene. One-on would know it was her unless they knew of the small set of birthmarks on the top of her tummy, or the myriad of small, criss-crossing scars that you could just make out if you stared at the picture long enough.

What took her by surprise was that they were muggle pictures; neither of them moved.


	23. Chapter 23

"I've got that picture at home too," she said, "Though I didn't frame it like you did. I keep it as a reminder of the peaceful time between the battle and my first day of school. A time when I was so happy. I had found my parent's again, even though our relationship was strained at the time, I had a lovely boyfriend, though he was brooding little. I had nothing to do, and all the time in the world to do it in."

"I know," he said, "I felt the same way. No responsibilities, no dangerous quests, and most of all, no enemies at our throats. I was so happy back then."

He took a bite out of his BLT. He was grateful Hermione hadn't made a bit of drama over the picture. It was a private picture, and he knew she might have objected to him enlarging it and hanging it so visibly in his apartment, but the image soothed his anger at himself a little. It was a reminder to take life slowly, and to enjoy what you have while you have it. He had lost everything dear to him once, and the picture reminded him of that every day.

"They are muggle pictures," she noted, pointing at both of them with the remains of her first sandwich, "Unusual."

"Perhaps," he said, "But it lends them a certain breath of calm, no?"

"Yes," she said, "I always felt that wizarding pictures lacked art."

"Colin is very good at what he does."

"These are Colin's?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. He had visited Colin's photo shop on Diagon Alley, even though he might have been able to visit a regular photographer. Colin had been more than excited to make the enlargements necessary, as well as develop the photographs. It had been Colin that had suggested making them regular ones, which Ron had warmed up to immediately. "I told him your picture was a foreign girl. I think he bought the lie."

She took a measured bite from her BLT. Perched on the couch, she looked every bit like the girl he had fallen in love with years ago. She was wearing a faded pink sweater that had several white smudges of paint on it. Her hair was still in reasonable shape; she wore it loose, and it fell from her head down to her shoulders, from where it either flowed down behind or in front of her shoulders. Her hair was long; longer than it had been when they had been at Hogwarts. Her hair was also a bit sleeker, its curliness reduced to large curves that graced the end of each individual strand. Shorter hairs on the top of her head curled out from the mass of brown, giving her a slightly messy look that Ron found incredibly attractive.

Ron knew he was looking at her shamelessly, and when she noticed, he offered her a grin. Hermione returned his grin with a smirk of her own, following it up with a quick nip from her sandwich. Chewing her food, she set her plate on the table and got up. Ron watched her walking around the room, silently taking in his apartment and the few belongings that were his. She lingered for a moment in front of his Chudley Cannons poster. It hung framed over his bed; a ten by six foot poster of a violent orange sporting the two black C's that made up the logo. It did move, though it contained no pictures of players. The C's turned lazily around, the inner one spinning clockwise, the other counter-clockwise.

"Still rooting for the underdog?" she said, grinning despite herself.

"Yup," he said, "Can't help myself. There's something beautiful about wanting to strangle yourself every Sunday afternoon."

"Do you still visit the games?"

"Nah," he replied, "I used to visit the home matches, but I stopped going a couple of years ago. Even I can't stomach that sort of torture."

She moved on from the poster to his wardrobe, and the small desk that stood beside it. It was literally buried underneath a mountain of paperwork. It was an adequate representation of his current financial records. He still had four years of paperwork to file, and those four years were scattered randomly inside and on top of the mountain. She glanced at him uncertainly, then allowed her eyes to rove over the many bills, offers, and official letters he should have filed away long ago.

"I was never one for accountancy," he said, "I think I have a cousin who does that."

"Ron," she said, the tone of her voice a mixture of exasperation and shock. She plucked out a yellowing receipt. "This is from three and a half years ago. And here," she said, taking out a sheaf of paper that was obviously a bill, "Four months. Have you paid this already?"

"I'm working on it," he said, making his way over to her, "I'm not making heaps of money, offering the lowest price on the market. It gets me jobs, don't get me wrong, but the margin on each job is minimal."

"Do you have a lot of unpaid bills?"

"I don't really know," he said, "I don't think so. Nothing big anyways."

She put her hands on her hips in that bossy way he had grown so fond of over the years.

"I'm going to help you sort this out," she said, "I'm taking it all home with me, and I'll put everything into neat accounts."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course, silly," she said, a smirk crossing her face, "It's not like I have a lot of things to do at the moment, like renovating, submitting proposals for Elfish Welfare at the ministry, or having any sort of social life."

He grinned back at her. "I'll tell you what. If you do this for me, I want to be there to help. We do this in the weekend, and we do it here. I've grown quite attached to the mountain on my desk, and I'm not sure if I can part with it just yet."

"If you're allowed to put up demands, than so am I," Hermione said, "You make dinner. And take-out is a no-go."


End file.
